


Take These Wings

by Geoff_Ramseys_Moustache



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Wings, Banter, Creature Stiles Stilinski, Derek is doing his Best, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nice Peter Hale, Pet Names, Were-Creatures, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 03:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15548352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geoff_Ramseys_Moustache/pseuds/Geoff_Ramseys_Moustache
Summary: The ground was getting closer and closer, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tightly and hoped nothing would be too broken.“Stiles!”Thump.





	1. Back Pains and New Appendages

**Author's Note:**

> Hayooooo- it been a while since I've published anything but I now have a new laptop and hopefully will be able to post some more things!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3

Stiles’ fucked, and not in a fun way… well, that depends on what your definition of fun is. Stiles definition of fun is being out of breath after running from the next big bad in town knowing it won’t be around for much longer, fun is people watching from rooftops, creating backstories for the people with (probably) boring lives littering the streets and laughing as he trips out on the power he thinks he holds in his hands. Fun isn’t learning to fly with wings he never really asked for.

It started with a handful of feathers… how silly is that? It took just 4 maybe 5 small bits of really soft, almost translucent, plumage for Stiles to start questioning who he is… what he is. Well, that's a lie, it started with back pains and sleepless nights and tossing and turning and two thin red lines showing up on his back like well-placed cat scratches… and a mild painkiller addiction.

The addiction was present way before the back pains started if he was totally honest, but he wasn’t, he was a filthy liar with loose morals and good aim. It took all of 3 weeks for his wings to grow in, 3 weeks of back pains and waking up in a bed littered with soft black feathers and spots of blood like a cat had mauled a bird while he slept unknowingly.

It was slow and agonising. 

For days on end his body was contorted and trigger tight, it was like having his wisdom teeth try to establish themselves in his mouth all over again. His face was more often than not pushed into his pillows to muffle pained groans, hoping his father wouldn’t bother to check on him during the brief moments he was actually home. Attentive fingers dug into the mounds on his shoulder blades, trying in vain to force _them_ through his skin. The other night Stiles had catalogued and numbered the blister red scratches he had made into his back, paying particular mind to the ones that are too red and too warm, there were so many. Who knew that short, almost non-existent nails could cause so much damage. On the upside, only a few had broken through the skin, and the rest seemed to almost disappear after a warm shower.

Stiles for the first time thought himself lucky that the pack hardly took notice of him and his endeavours, he’d take dealing with the pain himself over Scott’s constant questioning and sad puppy dog face.

It was Friday, roughly 4 in the afternoon if the bleary red numbers of the alarm clock were anything to go by, when, after hours and hours of varying degrees of pain, Stiles finally blacked out in a whimpering heap between his sheets.

When he came to, the sun was rising, dripping ichor rich sunlight through the horizontal blinds that hung over Stiles’ double bed creating a striped pattern of light and void that spilled over and onto his eyelids. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and tried to regain his bearings. His head was pounding, thundering and clattering against his skull with each heartbeat. He felt weighted like someone was sitting down on his back and pushing his chest down into the bed, making it hard to breathe.   

It was over; he had wings now, he could feel them like they had always been there like he was born with them. Unlike any other appendage, however, Stiles had to think about any movement before making it, he supposes it will take some time before his actions become autonomous and fluid.

Breathing hard, with his face pressed into a damp spot of his own saliva, his wings flittered and stretched, pushing themselves up into the segmented light, disturbing air particles and creating small whirlwinds, they glistened like reality was shivering.

He repositioned his arms, fingers curling into the sheets as he willed himself up from the mattress. He was exhausted and the hours he had blacked out hadn't lessened it even the slightest. His body drooped as he walked, shoulders slumped, and feeling weighed down like his steps, although quiet as ever, were more forceful than before.  Stiles thinks about the time it’s going to take for him to get used to the extra weight placed on his back, about his pack… about learning how to fucking fly.

Stiles runs his hands along the walls either side of him, trying to stay upright and stable on his feet, as he stumbles his way to the bathroom down the hall, to the mirror that resided there. The tips of his wings glanced the sides of the hallway, brushing against the walls and creating a soft swishing sound. He stops just short of the bathroom with his hands resting on the doorway, toes at the threshold. The doorway is ever so slightly too small for Stiles to walk through without turning so Stiles takes a breath in and focuses his thinking on his wings, about them pulling in like a bird when it lands.

He could, and would, just turn sideways to walk through if his wings don’t like his commands, but Stiles thinks it’s better to learn how to articulate them sooner rather than later… his wings, it's still a bizarre foreign thought, it startles him in a way most things supernatural don't. But then again, the supernatural thing doesn't usually happen to him. Sure it happens around him but never to him directly.

Stiles shakes his head free from thoughts and focuses back on the wings protruding from his back.

They move, slowly folding in on themselves, making their span no more prominent than his back, although, he's sure that if someone were to look at him like this, they would see the tips of feathers peeking out from over his shoulders or around his waist. Stiles steps over the threshold and stands in front of the mirror, fingers dancing over the cool ceramic sink that sat below the mirror. His suspicions were correct; he can see fine feathers peeking out from around his pale, lanky frame. 

He thinks about his wings stretching out, and they unfold. The bones click as they stretch out in the way your back does after you’ve been hunched over a computer for far too long.  

 

“ _holy shit_.”

 

Stiles stared into the mirror, eyes flickering ever everything they could, his dishevelled hair, his eyes and the sudden shimmer they hold and the bags that lay below them, the smudges of something black across his shoulders and the little crystals of sleep that didn’t quite make it off his face… the wings protruding from his figure.

The soft hum of the fluorescent light was somewhat deafening in between his breaths when the dazed but mystified silence he had created was at its strongest.

He had… wings.

It became very real to him all of a sudden, they say that seeing isn't believing, but that's a load of shit people who have never seen anything crazy tell themselves. He had wings, and they were real and opaque, and he could touch them.

They were a soft velvet black that did the opposite of glow; it seemed as though that void consumed any light that hit them, Stiles pushed his fingers into the feathers and shuddered under his own fingertips, laughing in amazement. 

 

“holy shit.”


	2. Pack meetings and a surprise guest

Stiles was proud of himself, over the course of an hour or so he had taught himself how to retract the wings back into his skin. Stiles was fascinated that it didn't really hurt to move them in and out if anything it only felt a little weird and tingly. Stiles had also learnt that it only takes a few short hours of ramming the bend of his wings into door frames to become accustomed to looking over his shoulder as he walks through doorways… even if his wings are nowhere in sight. It takes just as long to stop himself from walking sideways through every doorway, similar to that of a crab.  

It’s still breath-taking. Each time his wings stretch out and flicker, Stiles is in awe. Far cooler than werewolves in his ever so humble opinion.  

Consistent buzzing from his phone draws him from his thoughts, its Scott.

 

 **Scott** : pck meeting @ 5pm, b there.

 

He rubs his eyes and looks at the time, 2:04 pm. He still has time to sort this out, yeah he's got this. Totally.

It's 4:30pm, and Stiles doesn't ‘got this.' Not totally. Not even a little bit.

Wings were a pain in his ass. Plain and simple. Anytime he got startled they shot out and fluffed up, and there was nothing he could do to stop them at this point. The only reason he knows this is because dad had called the house phone, which surprised him because nobody ever calls the house phone and then _fwoosh!_ The wings he had just managed to put away burst out, big and demanding, devouring space and knocking over a cup of about 15 pencils, unsettling so much dust.

It’s… not logical why he wanted to keep his wings a secret, and he knew it, it was petty and If anyone asked he would have told them that he didn’t know what caused it and wanted to know everything he could before telling anyone else, but the real reason was that he finally felt worthy, he felt unique and magical and sure wings are a pain in the ass, but he has them, the moment he sprouted wings and feathers he was no longer the ‘defenceless human' of the pack, he was something other than 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. And yes, he understands the irony in that statement and knows that bird has hollow bones, making them, by definition, fragile. But as said, it wasn't logical.

God he wished he’d cancelled on Scott.  

“okay… okay… okay," Stiles muttered to himself. "I can do this; it'll be fine, I mean what's the worst that can happen? My wings burst out, and suddenly everyone in the room knows about the fact THAT IM A FUCKING AVIAN CREATURE FUCK."

He’s freaking out, and he knows he is, but to be entirely fair, he has an excellent reason to flip out even if it isn’t helping in the slightest. A few moments pass and Stiles is still sitting on his bed staring down at his hands, the weight from his wings is relieved as they once again settle down into non-existence. It's getting late, and he has to go, but it's as though he's stuck staring off at the wall across his room with fluttering anxiety within his chest, eyes flickering to the red numbers of his alarm now and then. Time doesn't seem to be passing as it felt as though Stiles was staring at the wall for hours’ in-between glances, however, the minutes hadn’t changed.

Stiles forced himself up from the bed and made his way through the house, grabbing his keys and bag, which still had his laptop in it, along with various other crap, and made his way to the car. 

He felt jittery the entire way there. It was as though his hands would not keep still, like an automated motor they would bounce and clench around the wheel with no discernible pace and no matter how much Stiles willed them to stop they kept on fidgeting. He slowed to a stop on the strip of road leading up to Derek's loft; it was a long stretch of road surrounded by trees, he had taken the back way for precisely this purpose. Once the car was stopped Stiles took in a deep breath, he was shaking like someone would if it was freezing cold. Another deep breath and Stiles forced his body limp. His head rolled back against the headrest, and he stopped shaking, the tension that had held him trigger tight was gone for the moment, but the fear still lurked.

He needed to calm down, if he were to walk into the loft right that second, no matter how oblivious or uncaring they are, they would notice the anxiety rolling off him in waves, which would lead to questioning and then to Stiles not answering and then to shouting and Scott’s puppy eyes and his heart rate spikes and he can feel it throughout his body, pounding against his fingertips and thrumming in his ears and he needs to calm down.

 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

 

His heart steadied and plateaued. With his head significantly clearer he knows exactly how close he was to a full-on panic attack. With another deep breath and long exhale, Stiles drove off again in the direction of the loft.

A few minutes later he was walking up the many flights of stairs, the lift had been broken for months now, and it seems as though Stiles is the only one complaining. By the sounds of it, the pack was already mostly there. There was chattering and laughter, none of which stopped when Stiles slipped in, smiling as he bumped into Scott, who greeted him with a smile of his own, as he made his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was somewhat separated from the rest of the loft, hidden behind a dividing wall lined by cupboards and benches. It was quieter in there than that of the lounge, the voices getting muffled by said wall. Stiles began scavenging around the cabinets for a cup and whatever drink Derek had in stock. He was getting better, in his own way, starting to provide for his pack and engage more than a few grumbled words at a time. The other day they had to share a conversation that wasn't about the big bad of the week, they had discussed literature, which he found Derek had majored in when he went to college, it was startlingly beautiful to see Derek's real colours. Although, Stiles had suspected all along that he was a kind man hidden behind all his sass and eyebrows. Stiles was lost in his thoughts of Derek and the growth he had made and how open he had become, not quite all the way there yet but getting there…slowly, he had not realised that Lydia had slipped into the kitchen behind him.

“Stiles.”

 

_Fwoosh._


	3. What the Fuck Stiles

_Fwoosh._

 

Stiles froze.

He froze, with the cup in his hand, face downward turned to the cup sitting on the kitchen bench.

‘dontpanicdontpanicdontpanic' was racing through his head, it was every second thought, the first being ‘we're fucked.'

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice came again, softer this time, although Stiles could clearly pick up the well-hidden shocked tone that laced itself in her voice. “Stiles look at me.”

She was calm. How could she be so calm, he’s a fucking bird… angel… whatever.

"Stiles, please, look at me," she paused and moved closer, even now, with her footsteps muffled by the pounding in his ears, he can tell she’s just behind him now. He turns, wings fluttering as they brush the cabinet behind him. He could still hear the pack happily chattering away. Stiles is praying for a miracle that nobody else walks into the kitchen. Lydia looks Stiles up and down, eyes lingering over his wings, which is to be expected, she stopped once she catches his eyes.

“They are beautiful, you know,” she’s trying to break the ice, its times like this Stiles remembers why he adores this woman. “Truly something special.”

"yea… you haven't even seen them in the light." Stiles quips, his smile is watery at best, Lydia moves her arms from around her waist so that they hang at her side. Now, to anyone else this would mean nothing, but to Stiles, and Stiles only, it says to come here. Stiles collapse into her arms. He's sure she can feel him shake ever so slightly when he breaths in her very pretty rose perfume. She used to wear something fruitier, but after an offhanded comment by one of the wolves about smelling the chemicals, Lydia began wearing something more natural. It made no difference to him, they both smelt nice, they were both calming. He could feel Lydia’s hands on his back, careful not to touch the base of the wings. He is calm when he pulls back, and his wings are once again gone.

“Lydia-” She cuts him off.

“We will talk about this later, but for now we are going to go out there, listen to whatever plan Scott has made, fix it where we can and observe like we always do."

Stiles breathes out and smiles, it's forced, but the feeling behind it is authentic, and slides into the lounge, taking a seat on the floor beside Lydia, who is sitting on the armchair. It takes a few moments but eventually, everyone settles down, and the room becomes quiet. Then, and only then, does Derek make his way down from somewhere upstairs and begins to address the pack.

“A group of hunters are in-town, however, Argent is going to talk to them tomorrow and get back to us, until then I’d like all of you to either spend the night here or to go home in pairs and make sure your phones are on at all times, we don’t need a repeat of the fae incident, Isaac.” His voice stern and commanding attention like the alpha he is, but also playful, it’s a big change from his once demanding demeanour.

Isaac shrinks back into the couch, there is no real venom behind Derek’s words and Isaac knows this too, but the reminder is still enough to make him feel guilty. Stiles feels as though no one will be making the same mistake for a while. The pack meeting is winding down, they ordered pizza, and Lydia stayed by his back, a consent and calming presence. There was one time when he came close to sprouting feathers, and that was when Kira and Allison returned with the pizza, they had thrown the sliding door shut making it clatter against the frame, luckily for him Lydia squeezed his hand and redistributing his focus.

 

“How are you getting home?”

 

Lydia smiled at him. Yeah, that’s what he thought, there was no way she was passing up the opportunity to bombard him with questions. They make their way down the stairs and into the car, neither of them noticing the piercing blue eyes that follow them down, nor the sly smirk that's paired with it.

They sit in silence once in the car; it's not awkward… it's patient. Like the moments before a predator leaps to capture its prey or when lightning strikes and you’re stuck waiting for the cackle of thunder to follow. 

They manage to make it to the end of the street before Lydia broke the silence.

 

“Stiles?”

 

"Yes, Lydia?"

 

“What the fuck.”

 

“I-I don’t know.”

 


	4. I Know What You Are

The rest of the dive is silent. Stiles pulls up to the stop sign, the road to his left is the way to Lydia's house and straight ahead is his. He swings a brief look towards the banshee beside him, and she shakes her head ever so slightly… they end up going straight.

The silence follows them up the stairs and into his room and branches out, its fingers curling around the room and filling it with intelligent quite. The sound of thought. Once again its Lydia who breaks the silence.

“Can I see them again?”

Stiles bites his lower lip, not in a sexy way at all as his expression would have more closely resembled one of constipation rather than intimacy. He studies her face, looking for fear- disgust- something, but her appearance was filled with curiosity and mild concern. Had he not known her for the time he had there would have been no way to tell from her immaculate make-up and dominating stare. "Sure… just-"

He sighs heavily, "just don't freak out okay because if you freak out then I'm going to freak out and then there will be feathers everywhere, and I might cry, and then you'll judge me, and I don't want that, and I can feel the words as they literally tumble out of my mouth am I rambling? I feel like I’m ramb-”

“Stiles!”  

“sorry.”

Lydia wait patiently as Stiles breaths. Her features are far softer now than they were moments ago, less hard-edged curiosity and more… well, more compassion, more understanding that Stiles is just as, if not more than, freaked out as she is. Stiles let out another breath, and the room fills with ozone and the distinct smell of lavender. His eyes flash silver. Not steal silver, but molten silver, glowing with heat and the promise of burning, like looking at a star. A shadow is cast across the room, and a quiet gasp falls from Lydia's lips as she stares in absolute wonder. The wings take up quite a lot of the limited room within Stiles room, but they are so striking and magnificent that she can't bring herself to care much for the cramped space.  

“May I?”

“Sure-uh yeah go ahead.” Stiles tilts his body towards the wall, wings sweeping against the bed covers and coming to rest well within reaching distance of Lydia. Lydia pulls her hand back as though she had been burnt as Stiles shivers and his wings flutter upon contact, she looks at the winged man with wide eyes as though apologising for a pain she had not caused. “No-no it’s okay… I’ve-you.”

Stiles smiles stupidly, eyes filled with mirth and remnants for silver. "No one other than myself have touched them, you didn't hurt me, it's just a weird sensation- Like when someone runs their fingers through your hair, and you shiver?"

“Okay.”

Lydia goes back to gently prodding at the plumage, nails tracing unknowable patterns against the skin that lies beneath it and sorting through feathers, making sure they lay flat and neat.

"You always amaze me, Stiles, whether it's with your stupidity-"

 

“Hey!”

 

“-or your ability to attract supernatural occurrences.”

“That didn’t make my feelings any less hurt but thank you?”

“We need to research this,” her fingers were still fiddling with his raven black feathers.

“We have to know what you are, what you can do and whether or not this-” she gestures to all of him, which, first of all rude, “-has negative side effects.”

“And whether or not I can fly?”

“and whether or not you can fly, yes.”

Lydia ends up staying the night, but it wasn't really planned as they both ended up crashing out on the bed (Lydia) and the floor (Stiles) in the early morning.

It takes 2 weeks of research, two break and enters- both of which were to get into Peter apartment where he kept all his books and relics, and several thwacks on the back of the head because Stiles was ‘being a whiny bitch' to find out what he is and by the end of it all, after everything Stiles had suspected he could have been, all the theories and ideas, he still would have never had guessed this.

"Stiles…" Lydia's voice was whisper soft, but he still heard it as it bounced around Peters apartment. "I know what you are."

“really?”

"yea." Stiles can feel his heartbeat pounding against his chest, threatening to break ribs in anticipation as he set down the priceless book he was flipping through and made his way to Lydia.

 

“Stiles you’re a lightning bird.”

 

Stiles' eyes are wide as he reads through the very few pages of information about him. According to the journal he's rare, not incredibly, no more so than a Banshee really, but unique enough to feel smug about it. And oh boy is he smug about it. Lydia tells him afterwards that it would explain the heavy scent of ozone that clings to him when his wings are out and the silver of his eyes, well what she thought was a silver hue but now knows it to be pure electricity. He doesn't have super-senses or strength that would rival that of the hulks, but he can fly, apparently, and with training can become very powerful almost electrifyingly so. They spend the next hour or so lounging around Peters flat, knowing full well that the wolf will know that they had been there, discussing what the next course of action will be. They decide that they will start with flying, and if he can manage to do that without killing himself then and only then will they start training with electricity.

They leave after that and split their separate ways, however, that won’t be for long as they had arranged to meet up the day after to start training.

 


	5. Take fall

“Lydia I hate this; I hate this so much, I fucking hate this.”

Stiles is currently standing atop an old two-story building; he's pretty sure it used to be a cabin of some sort, but it was hidden and high up, the perfect place for them to practice. No, they were not idiots. They had started on the ground at first, Stiles stretching out his wings and getting used to the feeling of flapping them, it wasn't long before he got the hang of it, even though to begin with it was so utterly tiring that he could only do it for a few minutes at a time. He guessed it was because he had to flap with great strength to even lift a little bit from a standing position, while birds glide, only needing to beat their wings to take off and stay stable. So they had escalated, he started jumping from about a metre up, from logs and stumps and low hanging branches, getting used to the feeling of his wings catching the air and creating lift. It was strange, but after the first initial fear of falling, he was hooked. It was fantastic and beautiful, and Lydia agreed that he was beautiful, stunning and graceful in a way he had never been on the ground, even though he wasn't really flying… more gliding towards the ground.

But it wasn’t before long that he needed to get higher, and Lydia argued that much like baby birds he just needed to leap and get it over with. He agreed to some extent, believing that it would probably be successful but still reminding her that he could get seriously hurt. That had always been a worry digging into his subconscious ever since he learned he could use his wings for more than aesthetics and beauty.

Lydia had promised that nothing bad would happen, she even went to the extent to acquire a ‘soft ground' talisman. When worn it was supposed to stop the wearer from getting seriously hurt, however, it wouldn't stop him getting hurt completely, and as they had learned through their testing, he also didn't have the extreme healing factor that werewolves have. Yes, he does heal faster than he would if he were still human but a broken bone could still take a few weeks to recover from. It's not something he wants to explain to Scott, let alone his dad.

So there he was, standing atop a building, feeling like he was going to throw-up even though Lydia had told him that it wasn't even ‘that high' and that the talisman would protect him. And he believed her, fuck if nothing else he believed and trusted her wholeheartedly. So far she hadn't steered him wrong, outed him or anything, she was always there for his panic attacks and crises and anxious ramblings that sounded more like an insane man's fever dream than anything else. So he stands, his back to the lip of the roof, ready to make a running leap over the edge and praying that his wings would catch him instead of him becoming a decorative splat on the forest floor.

"fucking here goes nothing," Stiles took in a deep breath, shut his eyes tight and made a running leap off the building and oh fuck. His wings weren't catching and he was falling and two stories aren't that far when you're plummeting to the ground below and fuckfuckfuckfuck. His wings fluttered in the air but nothing would catch him, he was falling like… like a falling angel and even in the moment of absolute fear Stiles would have laughed loud and clear, had it not been for the air rushing around him, forcing its way into his lungs. He'd like to think he was falling with grace. He wasn't. He was falling like a dropped pile of paperwork, messy and thrashing wildly. The ground was getting closer and closer, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tightly and hoped nothing would be too broken.

 

“Stiles!”

 

_Thump._


	6. Catch Me

“Stiles!”

 

 _Thump._  

His eyes were shut tightly, bracing for an impact that never came. When he finally started breathing again after a few short moments of shock, he had realised that he had landed not on the hard ground but in arms, solid arms. He hadn't even opened his eyes as he threw his own arms around the person's neck squeezing tightly and hiding his face within the person’s neck. His wings flittered and fluttered as he bathed in the scent of pine and old cologne, revelling in the warmth they supplied. He was shaking. He could feel it in his fingers but whether that was from the adrenaline or fear, or a sick mix of both he did not know, but he knew he was shaking as he threaded his hands into the shirt of his saviour. He keeps telling himself that he's okay, that he was caught and that he wasn't a puddle of bird and brain matter. He knows he will do it again, fear and near death hadn't stopped him doing a lot of things, why would it stop him now.

"Oh darling, you are beautiful." Their voice is deep, and it resonates through both their chest and Stiles. He knows that voice, he knows that it belongs to a murderer, to a man with sharp wit and a sharper tongue, but he couldn't find it in himself to care in that moment and instead of pulling away like the wolf probably expected him to, he clung tighter, fearing that everything would become too real if he were to open his eyes.

“Peter.”

"You should have told me, sweetheart," Stiles refuses to admit that to even himself that he is blushing, even though he knows deep down that the man, who is still carrying him bridle-style, knows his face is rosy red with blush. "I could have helped."

“You did… sort of.”

"mmm?" His voice was teasing, and Stiles hated (loved) it. "and how, might I ask, did I help?"

“We broke into your apartment and used your extensive book collection.” This time it’s Lydia who speaks, her voice is commanding, demanding the attention she deserves. Stiles can feel them shift as Peter turns to face Lydia. He should probably get down now, but it's the most secure he had felt in a while, and for the moment he doesn't want to question why.    

 

“Clever.”

 

“Like you hadn’t already known.” Stiles quips. “You can let me down now, by the way.”

“While it is true that I did already know you pair were in my apartment, I had not fathomed that this would be why.” Peter seemed to ignore Stiles last comment as he continued to hold onto the winged created, as though the added weight of the wings meant nothing to him, nor his balance. "What, may I ask, are you, sweet boy?"

“Lightning bird.” He hadn’t even thought about the possible outcome of Peter knowing this information as it tumbled helplessly from his lips.

"Oh-" the wolf was silent for all of a moment, but Stiles could feel his gaze steady on his wings. "That would explain quite a lot."

“Such as?”

“Clumsy.”

 

“HEy!”

 

"Oh baby boy I didn't mean it like that, however, you certainly know you are not the most graceful creature on land." Peter was rubbing his back, it was nice and comforting, but the thought of taking comfort from Peter weirded him out some. "I just made an observation that your inherent clumsiness is probably because you are a creature of flight, made for the skies and flying for long periods of time."

There was a quiet moment between the three of them, Stiles had opened his eyes by now and took in the fact that Lydia was close by, her stance loose and calm, as though she perceived no threat from Peter, which was… good. The moment came to pass as soon as Stiles had established and compartmentalised the information granted by Peter.

“What did you mean when you said you could have helped?”

“Oh Stiles, there is so much I can teach you." 

“like what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why must you be so cryptic?”

 

“Life isn’t fun without a little mystery.”

 

"I'll show you mystery." There was the distinct sound of feathers fluttering and something that can only be described as ‘thwapping' as Stiles fluttered his wings and twatted Peter on the head. Stiles would go under oath to say that he had not don't that on purpose, but the look on Peter's face, a look of pure shock and mirth, was something Stiles was proud to have caused. This is also something he doesn't want to look into too closely, somewhat scared of what he might find.


	7. Take Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of this work! It's a little shorter than I thought It would be but if this goes well and people really like it I might add a part two with stiles and his magic! anyway, hope you liked it!

“Just jump already!” Peter shouted. “If you fall you know I will catch you.”

"That doesn't make me any more confident Peter!" Stiles screamed, "I fucking hate you."

"No, you don't!" He could feel the smug from all the way up there because it's true, he didn't hate Peter, he never really had, but admitting that to himself and then admitting that to others are two entirely different things.

This wasn’t the first time they had tried to get Stiles to fly again after his big plummet the other week, however, this was the highest they had gone. Peter swears that this was as high as they needed to go as anything past that point was overkill and that he should soon be able to take off from ground level. And Stiles knew he was right, even if he hadn’t been in the same room when Peter was talking about appropriate training and teachings with an old friend who happened to be a lightning bird like himself, although, the wolf had later explained that the lightning bird he had later known to call Clarice (and her life partner Lilli) were much older than all of their ages combined. Stiles had commented that if they were older than them even with Peter there, they must be ancient. He got thumped, kicked off the couch and Lydia called him an idiot, but it was totally worth it to see the dumb smile Peter had. One that he definitely doesn’t think about daily. Nope. No sire.

It was around this same time that Stiles had discussed with Peter and Lydia about telling the rest of the pack once he had fully learned what he could do. They agreed, of course, say that it was probably wise to gain a better understanding of what he is before they go prodding and pulling at him. And part of understanding himself was learning to fly, to fly properly and not just hover dramatically like a cartoon vampire.

He felt ever so slightly more confident with Peter below him, knowing that if things go south… literally, that Peter would catch him and subsequently hold him until his legs stopped feeling like jelly. But unlike most other times, it was just him and the wolf, Lydia was off having her mandatory brunch with her mother, Lydia later explained that brunch was far too overrated and just an excuse to drink before noon… however, she still went to them like clockwork and always came back looking lighter. Its times like that that he misses his mum, but, hey what are you gonna do.

Stiles packed away his thoughts for another time and desperately tried to focus on flying. With a deep breath and a running start he leaped.

 

His wings flapped.

 

And flapped.

 

And he wasn’t falling.

 

He wasn’t falling.

 

He was flying.

 

“PETER!” Stiles laughed giddily, gliding around in loops, letting his wings take him with the wind. “I DID IT!”

Stiles twisted and turned in the air, feeling graceful and calm in his own way, he could see Peter down below, looking up with a tilted head and a genuine grin. Stiles could feel relief wash over him, but he wasn't a lightning bird for nothing, and soon the sky became dark, weight down with rains and the promise of wet weather. He came to land near Peter and let his feet carry his momentum until he was crashing into Peters' arms, smiling stupidly up at the man who helped him fly… literally.  

"Peter, I did it," Stiles said, voice light and airy and brimming with happiness and a sense of accomplishment.

“Yes, you did,” Peter’s voice genuine in a way it hadn’t been before. “I’m so proud of you sweetheart, you were dazzling.”

If you were to ask Stiles why he did it, he wouldn't be able to tell you. But he would say he didn't regret it for a second. The rain had begun to pour, and he could feel the droplets patter against his feathers, and what you may ask did Stiles do?

 

Well, he kissed him, didn't he.

 

Stiles was grinning proudly like a cat who had caught the mouse and staring into Peters eyes revelling in the happiness and calm and pride and care that radiated off of the wolf. And he kissed him. It was meant to be brief, and Peter had tensed up, and as soon as Stiles was going to pull away, he kissed back, wrapping his arms around the other's waist, squeezing tightly and Stiles felt like he was coming home, nothing mattered in that moment but the brilliant man before him. They pull away eventually, the rain is heavy and everything smells of ozone and water and forest. Stiles' head was resting against Peters' shoulder as they just stood in each other's embrace, perfectly calm, perfectly content. Peter was the one to break the silence in the end. 

“I’m sure Lydia is going to be mad she missed that.”

“What me flying or us making out in a forest?”

Stiles could feel Peters laugh rumble through his chest as he swept stiles up into his arms and carried him out of the forest and the rain, taking him home to get warm and keep him safe, they both knew they would have to talk about what they both wanted out of it but that could wait until later, for now, they just wanted to enjoy the calm that had bubbled up around them and encompassed them in a pleasant and somewhat soft haze.

It wasn’t until later that Lydia discovered them wrapped under blankets cuddled up on the couch in Peters lounge room.

“Finally.” She had muttered as she left to take a shower.

It turns out she wasn’t all too mad about not seeing Stiles fly for the first time, but she had made him promise to show her very soon. 


End file.
